Sunday, February 3, 2008

La Porte

by Rachel Webster

In the seam between day and night, wind
ruts the dirt road and
ruffles the milky way of dandelions.

The young among them are greasy gold and urgent,
while the old are balanced
between growth and that burst past

growing—annihilation, culmination
of a beginning each has always been
ending toward, admitting more and more

space, until what's left is
beyond color, a bleary truss
of matter and air. Shocked

accomplice of the rounding light,
how you tremble in the stretch
of your death, which is like all deaths,

geometric with seed. Wind-swimmer,
eye-floater, white nightgowned grandmother
dancing your platelets on the head of this pin,

can you show me how to wish,
how to gather and scatter
this single hooped breath?

Source :,Jan. 08